Page 52 of Unravelled
Brahn’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked almost satisfied. "You did the right thing coming to me," he said.
Mira let out a slow breath, uncertain whether she felt relieved or uneasy. Brahn’s stance softened just slightly, and for a moment, he seemed almost pleased.
"Don’t worry," he assured her. "I’ll handle it." A pause. Then, a shift in posture, something like approval. "But I’m glad you told me." Brahn studied her for a moment longer, then tilted his head slightly. "I have a job for you, if your up for a distraction?"
Mira straightened, almost before she could think about it. The motion was automatic, a reflex more than a choice. She met his eyes, posture firming even as something inside her still felt hollow. Let it be dangerous, she thought. Let it be far away and anywhere but here.
"You'll need to travel with the convoy to Seacliffe. Torvyn can arrange it with Cleric Perrin. I’ll be going as well, just more discreetly. Torvyn will give you the rest of the details once we arrive."
Seacliffe. She turned the name over in her mind. There were worse-off towns to visit, but if Brahn was involved, it meant something more than just a simple errand.
Mira nodded. She didn’t push for more. Brahn wouldn’t give her anything else anyway. She glanced past him, toward the heavy stone walls, toward the looming unknown of Seacliffe.
The tunnel around them was narrow, barely wide enough for one to pass without brushing the rough stone walls. She moved forward, and he shifted back, pressing his shoulders into the cold rock to give her room, careful not to touch her.
Her shoulder still brushed the wall as she passed. Bootsteps echoed behind her now, but she didn’t look back. The dark ahead was no less uncertain than what trailed behind.
13
Mira and Tharion hadn’t spoken since their fight. The past day had been filled with a silence that felt thick. They passed each other like ghosts. No arguments. No apologies. Just the brittle quiet of hurt and regret.
Outside, the sweltering press of summer had finally eased. The heat that clung to stone and skin was fading now, little by little, as if the world itself was exhaling. Shadows stretched longer, and the light softened. Not cool, but no longer suffocating.
Mira climbed into the carriage without hesitation, gripping the door handle with more force than was necessary. She turned, watching Tharion approach, steady, unreadable, always composed. He was dressed for travel. His usual coat was gone, abandoned to the lingering heat, leaving only a charcoal tunic with its sleeves rolled to his forearms. A deep navy cloak, thinner than the one he usually wore, hung from one shoulder, pinned with a silver clasp, a quiet nod to his rank, never more than he needed. The breeze toyed with the edge of the fabric as he walked, stirring the cloak with gentle insistence, but offering no real relief. Somehow, he looked infuriatingly composed.
She curled her fingers around the handle tighter as he reached for the carriage door. She moved, shifting just enough to block his way, planting herself between him and the carriage interior.
“Mira.” Tharion didn’t falter. One hand braced on the doorframe, the other gripping the roof’s edge as he stepped up toward the carriage. “We both know I’m coming.”
She didn’t look directly at him, but sighed. “Of course you are.” Not sarcasm. Just resignation. Like the ending of a sentence she'd already heard before.
He let out a slow, weary breath, not exasperated, just tired. Measured. But it sounded too close to detachment. “Mira… .”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. There was no fire left in them. “What?” she hissed. “Don’t keep my distance before I wreck what little we haven’t ruined?”
He flinched. “What I said, it wasn’t fair of me,” he blurted, his voice low. I didn't”
“No,” she cut in, “You were right.” She didn’t look away. Didn’t raise her voice. “What happened to our memories? Maybe that was my fault. Maybe the bond faded because I broke it. And maybe staying away from you is the kindest thing I’ve done in a long time.”
Tharion opened his mouth, but before he could answer, she pushed his chest. Not hard. Just enough. He staggered back. She slammed carriage door shut. The sound echoed louder than it should have. Inside the carriage, Mira didn’t move. She just closed her eyes and let the silence settle. Heavy. Final. Familiar.
???
The sound of hooves striking packed dirt filled the air as the convoy moved. The main highway to Seacliffe was well worn, stretching long and winding through the lowland plains before reaching the craggy cliffs of the coast. Merchants and nobles shared the wide road, their carriages creating slow-moving processions. Dust kicking up in thick clouds that clung to the air. Farmers led carts laden with late-season crops, their tired mules trudging forward under the weight.
The farther they traveled, the more the scenery shifted. A heavy, relentless summer heat bore down, making the air thick and shimmering where the sun hit the ground. The packed dirt road became softer, flecked with pale sand, the occasional gust of wind sending small grains swirling into the air, sticking to damp skin and settling in the creases of clothes. The air grew lighter but no cooler, carrying with it the briny tang of the ocean, the scent of salt thickening with every mile.
Heat waves rippled along the horizon, blurring the line where land met sky, making the distant dunes seem like they were shifting with every step forward. Towering inland forest trees transitioned to low, windswept pines and resilient dune grass, their forms sculpted by relentless sea breezes and scorching sun. Sunbaked wood, dry grass, and salt filled the air with a strong, clinging scent. The sunlight no longer filtered through dense foliage but stretched wide and open, searing against exposed skin, casting long, golden streaks over the rolling dunes beyond. The rhythmic crash of waves, once a distant murmur, grew louder, steady, endless. A promise of cool water that remained just out of reach.
By the time they reached the coastal stretch, the sun had set, and the road became rougher, the once-even path now riddled with stones and deep wagon ruts. The rhythmic clatter of wheels against uneven ground made the carriage rattle, and Mira braced herself against the seat to keep from jostling too much.
Through the small window, she caught the first glimpse of Seacliffe Stronghold. As the road curved toward the coast a fortress hewn directly into the cliff side itself came into view. It loomed over the town not from above, but from within, its wallsrising seamlessly from the rock. As if the cliff had grown battlements and towers of its own. The entry stood level with the fishing town, an imposing iron-gated tunnel cut straight into the cliff face, flanked by towering walls that blended so seamlessly into the natural stone that, from a distance, it was nearly invisible. Far above, the fortress itself stretched back into the rock, a labyrinth of carved corridors and wind-worn chambers, their narrow windows like watchful eyes staring out at the endless sea.
Beneath it, the fishing town of Seacliffe sprawled against the shoreline, caught between the fortress and the churning waves beyond. Thatched-roof cottages and stone houses clustered together, their walls streaked white from salt spray. The streets were narrow and uneven, paved with flat, sea-smoothed stones, their surfaces slick from mist. Fishermen hauled in their morning catch, nets heavy with writhing silver, while traders called out from stalls overflowing with dried fish, rough-woven nets, and thick coils of rope meant to withstand the might of the sea. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries sharp against the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs. The scent of brine and tar filled the humid air, clinging to everything.
The convoy moved slowly through the town, the weight of watchful eyes pressing in on them. Seacliffe was not a place accustomed to a convoy of visitors. Outsiders were noticed, and nobles especially, were watched. The road narrowed, funneled toward the fortress gates. The entry tunnel lay before them, its heavy iron gates groaning open as the convoy approached. The moment they passed through, the temperature shifted, the heat of the summer sun was replaced by the cool, damp chill of stone that had never known warmth.
Inside, the stronghold stretched deep into the rock, a fortress built less for comfort and more for survival. The courtyard was an open space, half-exposed to the sky above, half-shadowed beneath the overhanging rock. The surrounding walls were not just built, they were part of the cliff, reinforced by masonry where needed but still unmistakably raw stone.
